Cocooned in my white comforter, armed with a bag of popcorn and cooling chamomile tea, I triple-checked that the subtitles were on and clicked the hovering play button on my laptop. Rich, classical piano music immediately splashed into my dorm room, enveloping me in French elegance as the golden hues of the opening scene gradually came into focus.
I wouldn’t call myself a movie critic. My “old soul” heart is perfectly content to watch ‘90s Disney classics or any movie starring Julie Andrews on repeat for the rest of my life. I’m a nostalgic creature of habit — what can I say? Up until approximately one hour and 52 minutes ago, I had never watched an international movie. Honestly, I thought that any movie produced outside the good ‘ole U.S. of A. was either a foreign soap opera on steroids or a brooding art film that wanted to make me feel guilty about existing. Spoiler: I was wrong.
After a quick Google search of “most acclaimed international movies” (because how else do we start anything these days?), “The Intouchables” caught my eye. Released in 2011, the award-winning French drama follows the true story of the unlikely friendship between Philippe, a wealthy quadriplegic, and his down-and-out personal aide, Driss. Being a sucker for a feel-good, faith-in-humanity-restored tearjerker — I was hooked.
Taking a cautious sip from my mug, I just about went cross-eyed trying to focus on the musical French dialogue I was hearing as well as the small black boxes tickering along the bottom of the screen. Within minutes, my Type A, multitasking brain was in revolt. I couldn’t zone out and stress over my Costco-sized homework load the next day, I couldn’t just get up and grab a Poppi while the movie played in the background and I sure enough couldn’t absently scroll on Instagram or answer text messages. Subtitles demanded something in short supply today: full attention. And strangely, instead of feeling trapped, I felt absorbed — more emotionally invested in a movie than I had been in a long time.
The loveliness and exquisite ebb and flow of the French language swept me off my three-inch memory foam mattress topper (which is truly a game-changer by the way). It didn’t just sound beautiful — it felt alive, like an eight-year-old girl skipping across chalk squares. The language made the story feel real and authentic in a way that no Southerner with a bad French accent ever could. I not only enjoyed the movie — I believed it. Halfway through, I caught myself wondering: Should every movie set abroad be filmed in the country’s native language? (Imagine “Les Misérables” in a flat Midwestern English accent. Terrifying.)
Of course, immersion came with growing pains. My vision of France — borrowed entirely from “Ratatouille” — collapsed pretty quickly. Euros piled up faster than I could mentally convert them to dollars. Cigarettes were practically accessories. Racial tensions crackled in ways I hadn’t expected. And yes, I paused the movie more than once to backtrack, proof that my excruciating oblivion and ignorance was alive and well. But weirdly, I was grateful for the confusion. It meant the movie had plunged me deep enough into French culture to unsettle me and push me out of my comfort zone.
The longer I watched, the more I recognized how familiar the story felt. Teenagers snuck off onto rooftops to make out. Men grinned like little kids behind the wheel of a sports car. Single moms worked three jobs to provide for their kids. The wealthy ate with silver spoons but were unfulfilled. I was prepared to see fresh baked baguettes tucked into brown grocery bags and glittering Eiffel Tower cameos; instead, I found echoes of the world I already knew.
As the credits rolled, I closed my laptop and clicked off my fairy lights. I sunk into my twin XL bed with a renewed love for God’s international image bearers, an ignited curiosity for French culture and a blistering impulsive to buy plane tickets to France for Thanksgiving break. Subtitles had slowed me down long enough to cherish the shared humanity that runs beneath every story.
